


Harlan Shit

by norgbelulah



Category: Justified
Genre: M/M, Pre-Canon, Reminiscing, Running Away, Smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-30
Updated: 2014-01-30
Packaged: 2018-01-10 13:31:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1160274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/norgbelulah/pseuds/norgbelulah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Raylan wants to talk to Boyd about something other than the usual Marshal bullshit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Harlan Shit

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thornfield_girl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thornfield_girl/gifts).



> This was written to take place between S4 and S5, but there are really only mild spoilers for any particular season. Written in December for Thornfield_girl because she was sick, I think.

"I thought you were on your way out of town," Boyd says to him as Raylan approaches the old deer stand. He's smoking a cigarette. Raylan hasn't seen him do that since they were nineteen. He always thought he'd quit at some point, like Raylan had.

Raylan looks up at him. He needs to, Boyd's ten feet off the ground. 

Boyd's said those words to him before, a long time ago, from that very spot. He'd been smoking then too.

"Where'd you get such an impression?" Raylan asks curiously.

Boyd shrugs. "Somethin' you said back around the time that Black Pike woman was poking around. Before I--" He doesn't continue. "You said you wouldn't be 'round to clean up the bodies."

"Guess I was kidding myself a little," Raylan says. "I ain't goin' anywhere now."

Boyd laughs. "Neither am I, Raylan. Neither am I."

Raylan doesn't say anything in response. He looks at the rickety ladder, unable to decide if he should brave it. The last time he was here, he didn't. The first time, he and Boyd had spent three days up that ladder while half the county and the State Police were searching for them.

 

Boyd's mama was sick for a long time, and when she died Raylan became his friend. They were thirteen and it was summertime and Boyd's daddy didn't care where he was. So he went to Raylan's house.

They hadn't been friends before that. But they'd played nintendo upstairs in Boyd's room while Bowman looked on during his mother's wake. When Mama came upstairs to collect him, Raylan turned to Boyd, almost shyly, "I don't have no fancy game like that, but you can come over tomorrow and...hang out or something...if you want."

Boyd grinned at him and agreed. They did that for the rest of the summer.

Sometimes they were at Boyd's house, but most of the time they were in and around Raylan's. They had some real nice times together, too, playing games that were maybe too young for them then, but that they both still really liked. Like Cowboys and Indians, Cops and Robbers, and Hide and Seek. Things two boys could do together across a vast stretch of land between their two houses, full of woods and hills and hollers and streams. 

They'd go fishing sometimes too, in a man-made lake where a quarry used to be. County people came by and stocked it for morning and evening fisherman who carried rods and tackle boxes to and from their trucks coming up and down from the mine, but Raylan and Boyd fished it with string and old hooks and worms dug up from a leaves and the dirt in the middle of the day and the hot sun. They didn't need licenses, not until they were sixteen and most boys were too busy by then with drinking and girls and summertime sports leagues--or Raylan had been at any rate. 

They had a really nice summer together. Idyllic, some more poetic man might have called it.

That was, until Raylan's daddy came back from his time in Little Sandy and was somehow around all the time asking questions like, "You can't smile for your man, Frances?" and "What's that Crowder boy doing here all the time? Ain't he got his own home?"

Pretty soon Raylan was telling Boyd down by the gravestones at the front of the house, "He's gonna be up soon and he was mean drunk when he went to bed. He's gonna be all hungover and pissed and he won't want you here for dinner." He'd forgotten what it was like to have Arlo around all the time, even though he'd only been gone fifteen months.

Pretty soon he was doing that almost every day.

Boyd always took it okay, but as the weeks wore on, moving fast through August, he was starting to look a little thinner, and his eyes were hungry for more than food. 

"I don't know where Daddy is," he said one time. "Bowman's okay with Gram, but she's all over me all the time to do little kid shit with him and help her in the kitchen. I wanna go fishing with you."

Raylan snuck away, but Mama got the belt later for not keeping a better eye on her son. Raylan said he couldn't the next day.

To this day, with that in mind, Raylan still doesn't know what possessed him to smile, all out grin really, and say, "Yeah, all right," when Boyd showed up at his back door three days later with a knapsack full of junk food, a sleeping bag, and canteen slung across his back, asking, "You wanna run away with me?"

 

Boyd had the place picked out already. Their "starting point," from where they'd make all the real decisions about their life on the road. Boyd had a map. He wanted Raylan to help him decide where they would go. 

He wasn't being dumb about it either. He complained he'd wanted better food, but that his daddy hadn't bought them anything in weeks but chips and candy. He couldn't steal from his gram, she kept a Depression-era coal miner's daughter's eye on the pantry and would miss something as seemingly invisible as one cup of oats, let alone a pot good for boiling them in.

He had matches for fires. He'd been a boy scout--Raylan too for a hot minute before Arlo said the expense was too much--and knew a lot about camping. They could have stayed on the ground, but Boyd liked the deer stand, disused now that his grandfather and uncle had passed. He said they could see a threat coming from a mile away, or at least 500 yards, even in the heavily wooded area.

Boyd hadn't been able to steal a gun, but he did have a sling shot, the one Raylan used to make fun of him for being so proficient in using. He'd called him Dennis the Menace and Boyd hadn't taken it out with them in the woods after that. 

Raylan felt sorry about it then, knowing it would be dead useful for when they ran out of store-bought food. Which they were sure to do because they'd eaten a lot of it by dark on the first night, seeing as they skipped dinner to sneak away and spend the early evening making the trek to the stand.

It was hot that night so they stripped down to their drawers, never-minding the mosquitoes, and poured over the map to the light of Boyd's daddy's Maglite. Boyd said it was so heavy, it could double as a weapon, in case somebody jumped them. It was bright, too, bright enough to light up Boyd's smile when he looked over and across all the roads they could take.

It was a map of the whole United States. Boyd said, "We could go anywhere, Raylan."

Raylan believed him.

It was Raylan who pointed out Florida, spotting Cape Canaveral in the dead center of the Atlantic Coast. "You wanna see the space shuttle, Boyd?" he asked. 

Raylan knew he did. They were both crazy about astronauts and the Space Shuttles and walking on the moon. Raylan said once he thought Boyd was smart enough to do it--they'd both learned how much school you had to have, how much training too, to be shot up there. Boyd had actually blushed, the only time, even years later, Raylan had ever seen him do it, and shook his head and said, "Shut up. No way."

Boyd's grin was infectious, wide and toothy. "I can't believe I didn't think of that," he said.

They fell asleep sprawled out across the open sleeping bag. Raylan remembers waking in the night--he was so used to it from the loud then muffled noises that would come from down the stairs or in his parents room--and not knowing where he was or why it was pitch dark instead of muted gray from the light of the moon. Boyd caught his wrist before he scrambled back and off the high tower all together.

"You're okay, Raylan," he said, almost sleepily, like he wasn't even aware of the words he was speaking, or like he was dreaming and didn't know Raylan wasn't dreaming too.

Raylan was suddenly overwhelmed by something, pressing up hard and hot in his chest and he didn't want to, but he couldn't stop the tears springing to his eyes, hurried and along with a broken, limping sob. He didn't know why then. He called himself a baby in his head, and his face turned red and hot, like his stupid tears, from embarrassment as well as the unexplained feeling. 

He tried to turn away, to hide them, but Boyd was awake now and he pulled him back around. "You're gonna fall off for real, you go all the way over there," he murmured. And then Boyd pulled him close. He just did it and he didn't say anything and Raylan cried even though he didn't know why and then he fell asleep again.

 

Boyd was a meticulous planner. 

They spent all the next day making mile calculations and where they would need to stop for meals and rest and where would be likely they could set up at a camp site, and where people might get suspicious because they were on their own. Boyd had stolen a wad of cash from both his gram and his daddy, and they tried to figure out how long it would last them. They spent at least an hour debating what kind of odd jobs they could get or if they'd have to steal from people and where and how.

Raylan didn't want to steal, and kept insisting someone would pay them to chop wood if they stuck near the state forests. Boyd said that was idiotic--really, in hind-sight, it was--and that he'd have to teach Raylan to pick-pocket because if he wasn't going to pull his weight, he might as well not come along at all.

Raylan shot back that Boyd wouldn't even know where to go if it wasn't for him.

They fumed at each other for another hour, over a dinner of beef jerky and a warm orange soda before Boyd finally said, "You're right," then added quickly, "about me not knowing. I asked you to come 'cause I knew you'd come up with something good. I just...wanted to get out, but I didn't..." He struggled with it and just quit after a minute. "I knew you'd know where to go."

 

They set off just before dusk, thinking no one would think it was weird, two boys walking through the woods after school. They didn't kid themselves no one was looking for them. They were banking on them looking further afield now that it had been over 24 hours since they'd gone missing. Well, Boyd was banking on it and it was his idea. Raylan thought it made sense.

They were still caught just off the state road by a Highway Patrol car, not because he knew they were missing, but because he didn't like the look of them. He thought they'd been setting illegal traps out in the forest.

They tried to make a break for it, or Boyd did, with Raylan following. But the old Statie caught Raylan by the collar as he was sliding out of the backseat of the cruiser and smacked him across the face once, before Boyd, who'd heard him yelp, sprinted back and jumped the guy, yelling at him not to touch his friend.

They were both home by 8 o'clock. And they weren't allowed to see each other anymore, by Bo's decree as well as Arlo's.

In the cruiser on their way back home, Boyd looked hard at Raylan and said, "I don't believe for a second you won't get out of this place."

"Me either," Raylan said fiercely. "For you."

Six years later, Boyd surely thought he could get himself out of Harlan, he just didn't want to anymore.

 

Boyd catches Raylan eyeing the ladder. 

"Don't think you can make it up here, old man?" he asks amusedly.

"Not sure I want to," Raylan answers honestly. He and Boyd really shouldn't be anywhere near each other.

"What brings you all the way out here, then, Marshal?" Boyd's voice is tired. 

Raylan imagines it would be. He doesn't like slipping himself into Boyd's shoes these days, even for a half a minute of empathy. He doesn't like how easy it is. 

"Filling in for Smokey the Bear," Raylan riffs dryly. "Gonna make sure you take care of that butt."

Boyd smiles, surprise betraying his amusement. He huffs a laugh through the smoke coming out his nose and mouth. His eyes are on his dangling feet. He looks strangely small to Raylan, all the way up there.

"This ain't Marshal shit," Raylan says. Boyd meets his eyes. "It's Harlan shit."

Boyd frowns at him. "Come up then."

Raylan swallows. He wouldn't the last time Boyd said that.

 

"No," Raylan said that night, just before dusk, like the last time they'd been here. "You're right. I'm on my way out of town."

"You can't come up here and say bye to me?" Boyd grumbled petulantly.

"Boyd, you knew this was gonna--"

"Don't, Raylan," he said tiredly. He sounded like he wanted to say more, but didn't know what to start with,

There was a lot to say.

"You're scared," was what he came up with after a long silence.

Raylan was. He was scared of a lot of things. Staying in Harlan. Being stuck here. Having his mind changed after a million little hurts, bruises, slights, would make him want to stay, to settle scores and--he was scared of Boyd. 

His feelings for him were only bigger now that they'd crushed their lips together in a frenzy of adrenaline after the coal dust settled around them, after they sped away from the mine and the clean-up last night. His feelings for Boyd were too big to ignore, but not too big to run away from.

"I was always gonna go. So were you."

"People grow up, Raylan." He was talking to the sky, his back flat on the deer stand, his legs dangling. Raylan could only see the glowing end of his cigarette. "They change their minds about things. You think I always--"

He broke off.

Raylan didn't think Boyd always did or said or wanted anything. He was so changeable. Maybe he would want to leave in a year, a month, a week even. But he didn't want to leave now and Raylan fucking needed to. Couldn't not.

His mind didn't change as fast as Boyd's. If he didn't go then, that day, that hour, he would have stayed and he would have died and Boyd probably would have too. It was going to grow too big.

"You ever gonna come back?" Boyd asked, sitting up and looking down at Raylan in the increasing darkness of the woods.

Raylan wondered if it was too dark for Boyd to see his expression. "I really don't intend to."

Boyd sighed. "I didn't think so." He drew shaking fingers across his brow, fingers still holding onto his cigarette. The tiny light almost illuminated his face. "Good luck, Raylan."

"You too, Boyd." And he just walked away.

 

He wasn't sure if he regretted it for a long time. 

He never felt for anyone again what he felt for Boyd, that strange mix of lust and admiration and a little bit of fear. Raylan liked to be in control and he never ever was with Boyd. 

When he was thirteen he let himself be led, he liked it. He liked Boyd and things could just be that simple.

When he was nineteen, he liked to push back, to question. He liked the way Boyd would argue, the way his eyes would flash with his smile. He liked that kiss, too much, and he ran away.

Now, he can't like Boyd and he does anyway.

He climbs up.

Boyd's lighting another cigarette. He waves it in Raylan's direction and Raylan thinks, what the hell, and captures Boyd's wrist, curling his fingers around Boyd's so he can bend forward and take a drag on it.

Boyd stills. He clearly wasn't expecting Raylan to indulge. "I got another. I can light you one," he says softly.

Raylan looks up into his eyes and smirks. "It's easier to pretend this ain't happening if I don't have one of my own."

Boyd hands it to him and they trade it back and forth.

After a few silent minutes of that, Raylan says, "I thought you'd quit." The smoke in his lungs makes everything feel like old times.

"I thought you were leaving. Thought you weren't coming back either." Boyd shrugs. "Things never stick here. Never change."

Raylan lets out a quiet, bitter laugh. "That's for damn sure."

"Tell me about the Harlan shit, Raylan," Boyd says.

"Don't rush me," Raylan replies, taking another drag. "I came all the way up here."

Boyd blinks and smiles slowly. "All right." His voice is soft, tender almost. Like in the night when they were young, like he knows more about Raylan's feelings than Raylan does.

Raylan's boots are flirting with gravity, feeling heavier than usual, like they're about to slip off. He wiggles them around a bit and feels like a little kid again. Boyd huffs at him and kicks the side of his boot once, and seriously, he knew Raylan wouldn't be able to resist, so now they're sitting there like teenagers playing footsie under the table, except in full view of themselves and the moon and God. 

Boyd's boots are the shitkicker kind that miners wear, steel-toe and worn. They're just like the ones they both used to wear. Raylan won't fool himself they are the same. Raylan's are worn too, but not in the same way. The soles of his cowboy boots are thin from walking long in them. It's the toe and the welt on the sides that are all scuffed up and worn through. 

Raylan kicks him again until Boyd just presses back and Raylan meets him with the same force. They ease back, but they don't stop touching, boot to boot. Raylan wonders if it's a challenge now, a dare, or if they'll just quit while they're ahead. He doesn't think Boyd is certain right now either.

Raylan hands the cigarette back to Boyd and their fingers brush together again. Raylan is warmed by the contact, it's not an electric jolt like he remembers from that last day at the mine, but it's something and he feels almost gratified it hasn't completely gone away. He knows he shouldn't, but he does. There's nothing to do about it.

Well, there's one thing. But it's a supremely bad idea.

Their knees are crowding together now and Boyd's looking at him funny, long after their hands fall apart again. He stamps out the butt and tries to light another, but the wind is getting at him, so Raylan snatches the lighter from his hand.

"Here," he says and snaps it fast while Boyd's hands cup around his fingers and the light, shielding them. He looks at Raylan, a little harder this time, not so funny, and licks his lips through the smoke billowing out his mouth. 

In the muted moonlight he looks like an old photograph, like the ones of the union reformers in the 20s and 30s with their coal-darkened faces and fathomless eyes. Men like them don't exist anymore. Mostly, neither do men like Boyd.

Boyd knows that too.

"Here," Raylan says again, fishing with two fingers, the other three holding onto Boyd's lighter, into his jacket pocket. He pulls out the old slingshot and hands it to him. 

"I must've had it in my bag, when we packed up from here. Didn't even realize it after. I just dumped all that stuff out. Didn't want to think about it. Never looked at it again."

"You were hurting," Boyd says, like it's obvious. He hands him the cigarette.

Raylan shrugs, taking it. There's no sense in denying.

"I was too," Boyd offers. "I'm sure there's a box of camping equipment somewhere in Daddy's old house, never got looked at again. Hell, maybe Bowman found it, sold it off for better shit." 

Boyd fondles the leather, smoothing the pads of his fingers down to the wood. The box had been near the heat register in the closet. Everything in it was dusty and all dried out. The damn thing was probably too old to shoot straight.

"Found it in a box full of junk in my room."

Raylan's room. That was a weird experience. Helen left it mostly untouched and he'd been going through it, getting the house ready to sell, for the past week. He'd found some other things of Boyd and Ava's in Arlo's house. They weren't getting that shit back.

But this, this little piece of another time in cracked maple and boiled leather, was something else. It was a relic and those deserved to go back to their country of origin.

"I thought you should have it back," he says.

"Thank you, Raylan."


End file.
